Rope.
You hung me from your neck and laughed at the choke.
At the blue.
At the fumble of breath.
Ownership.
And a month later, me telling you about the the others.
And the others.
And you- swinging. Blind. Crying.
And me. Laughing.
Teeth glinting in the dim light from the top of the basement stairs.
And the police, in all of their sirens and lights and urgency.
Saving the day saving the night saving lives.
And you- lying on the ground.
Help me, you say.
The police rush to you.
And the door- knives steady and deep in the wood.
My hands are stronger than they look.
My accuracy unmatched.
And me- handcuffed over the red spattering on my shirt,
being forced into the backseat.
"Who's blood is this?" They ask.
I am quiet. Cold. Stone.
I am laughing.
The darkness swallows me.
I am 18.
I have arterial spray on my cheek.
The officer asks for a reason.
A why. Why why why.
That's what they all want to know.
But I grind my teeth.
This car ride is boring me.
The handcuffs are loose, I slip my arm out of one.
I smile in the quiet of the backseat.
Life is too easy for me.
A November memory.